The 'Lovely Rose of Slytherin' was a failure. Her life? Wasted. Her dreams? Gone. Her children? Don't even get her started on them.
Andromeda was gone; betrayed her family for a muggleborn Hufflepuff of all people. Bellatrix went off the rocker as soon as she married the Lestrange boy; took that horrid mark and worshiped it like it was Merlin's gift to mankind. And Narcissa? She was all too meek to be a daughter of hers. No spunk at all, and though her beauty was true, her father had spoiled her at every chance he got and she thought she was a princess. Lucius Malfoy treated her as such, and Narcissa was respected throughout pureblood circles, but she would never be the political snake that the Black women were rumored to be; that Druella had been at that age.
She was a Rosier by birth. Her family line was pure - admittedly not the most ancient or noble - but pure, nonetheless. Druella had given them glory by marrying Cygnus Black; oh how excited her father had been at the prospect that if Orion Black died heir-less, a grandchild of his would sit atop the Black hierarchy. But no, Cygnus's cousin had two sons - Sirius and Regulus - and even when the eldest disgraced the family countless times, (being sorted into Gryffindor, running away, etc.) Orion still refused to disown him. And in any case, Druella never managed to give Cygnus a boy, no matter how many times they tried. After Narcissa, her husband gave up and never came back to her bed. That was when her reputation as a Black started to deteriorate, and she heard the women of the family snickering behind her back, talking about the many mistresses Cygnus apparently had. But she endured, her head held high. Druella didn't need a man to solidify her social standing.
She stewed for days after she found out about her husbands first mistress, but then came to the conclusion that moping around would achieve nothing. Then one day, Cygnus's aunt visited her.
"I have been in your position." Cassiopeia Black had admitted. "I didn't know how to deal, and I was mocked for being weak. But I was young, then. I made mistakes. I will help you avoid my failures."
And Cassiopeia did. Druella was introduced to witches so ruthless, she was reduced to tears at the end of the day. But they taught her important lessons, and slowly, the old, soft Druella Rosier became the cold and cutting Druella Black. People learned to fear her. Cygnus's mistresses met accidental, untimely ends. Her husband learned to never ignore her again. For a time, Druella was happy. Once again respected, no mistresses to tarnish her reputation ... she was happy!
Then came death, which was supposed to be a respite. But for Druella Black, nothing involved rest. A visit from the healer confirmed her worst fears: her death would be inevitably drawn out. The dragon pox she'd contracted was of the sort that could drag on for years. There were no potions to alleviate her pain and she spent her days gritting her teeth and pulling through, because Druella Black wasn't a person who would die at age fifty eight.
Visits from her children were far and in between, most of them coming from Narcissa, and all she did was gush about her newborn baby son, Draco.
"Oh, mother, he looks exactly like Lucius! A dragon already, I tell you!" And she would ramble on and on, oblivious to her mothers labored breathing and thinly veiled exasperation.
On the eve of her sixtieth birthday, Cygnus visited her. That was the night their first heart-to-heart took place, sad as it was.
"When did you become this person, Druella?" He'd asked her.
"When you decided your daughters and I weren't enough." She'd replied coldly.
"Don't say you weren't tired of the monotony our lives had gotten into either!" He'd said in disbelief.
"Monotony ... that's why there were whores in the house every other night? That's why I had to cast silencing charms around your room because I didn't want my children's innocent minds to be tainted by this and that? That's not a reason, Cygnus. I was mocked because of your indiscretions. I was ridiculed and I wasted away; you were the one who forced me to become who I am now. You don't get to berate me for anything. No ... not now; not when I'm on my deathbed, struggling against passing out even now as I speak to you. If you have even a shred of pity in your body, you'll leave me be, and I'll spend my last days in solitude and peace."
So he left and the day after she turned sixty, the candle of Druella Black's life was snuffed out. The Lovely Rose of Slytherin wasted away, yellowed and wilted like a flower neglected.